David Davies - The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Veiled Detective

“Bastard,” he muttered to himself. “Merely trying to be friendly to the girl.”

Once standing, albeit in an unsteady fashion, he consulted his watch. “Blast! Missed the train.”

“Need a cab, sir?”

Drebber looked up and saw a hansom cab at the kerb. The driver, a broad fellow with a florid face and large grey beard, stared down at him.

Drebber thought for a moment. His brain was sluggish with alcohol, and he had to concentrate hard to formulate any simple plan of action.

“Dammit,” he said, “might as well. Do you know Halliday’s Private Hotel on Little George Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. That’s for me.” With some effort, Drebber clambered into the cab and collapsed in the seat. Within seconds of the cab moving off, he had fallen into a drunken slumber.

The cab headed away from Euston. Away from Little George Street. The cab headed for Brixton. Jefferson Hope smiled with a warmth that had not been in evidence for over twenty years.

Enoch Drebber was roused from his sleep by being roughly shaken. As he opened his bleary eyes, he saw the face of the cabbie looming over him.

“It’s time to get out.”

“All right, Cabbie.” The voice was thick and virtually unintelligible. With assistance from the cabbie, Drebber stepped on to the pavement, but then his legs seemed to give way.

“Need so’ assistance,” he murmured, leaning heavily on the driver.

“Certainly, sir,” came the reply.

Hope hooked his arm under Drebber’s and shepherded him up the path towards the empty house. Unlocking the door, he helped the man inside.

“It’s infernally dark in here. Halliday’s Private Hotel?” said Drebber, a note of uncertainty introduced into his inebriate tones.

“We’ll soon have a light,” said Hope, striking a match and lighting the candle that he had brought with him. The room filled with a gloomy ochre light, revealing it to be empty and derelict. At first, Drebber gazed in wonderment, and then fear caught hold of him.

“What... what the hell’s going on here? Where are we?”

Hope held the candle to his face and threw off his wide-brimmed hat.

“Never mind where we are, Enoch Drebber, you answer my question. Who am I?”

Open-mouthed, Drebber gazed at him with bleary, drunken eyes, and then they widened in horror and convulsed his whole features. He staggered back, his hand to his mouth, gagging the scream.

“You know me, then?” said Hope steadily.

For Drebber, it was the bleakest and most fearful of nightmares. Of course he knew the man. It was the man in all the world he most feared meeting. The terror that rippled through his body brought about a remarkably quick sobering effect. Suddenly his brain began to function with icy clarity. He had been abducted and brought to this godforsaken dwelling by his greatest enemy.

“I have money, lots of money,” he said feebly. “I can give you money.” Jefferson Hope laughed in response.

“What is it that you want?”

“Vengeance,” replied Hope simply. “I want vengeance.”

Twelve

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

The morning following Holmes’ emotional revelation concerning his detective aspirations, Ifound him in a far more cheerful and bright-eyed mood. Icame down to breakfast as usual, and to my surprise discovered my fellow lodger swathed in an enormous purple dressing-gown at our dining-table, lingering over a plate of buttered toast. He was already grinning about something as Ientered, and on seeing me his smile broadened.

“Ah, Watson, the very man. Ihave good news for us both.”

“Really?” Isaid, with some apprehension, joining him at the table and pouring a cup of coffee.

He scooped up a sheet of paper and waved it triumphantly before his face. “Brain food, at last. You remember yesterday how down in the dumps Iwas because Ihad no criminal investigation to challenge my mind...?”

I nodded.

“Well, here is the answer to my prayers.” He passed the sheet of paper over to me. “Go on, man, read it!” he cried eagerly.

I did so. The letter ran:

Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,

There has been a bad business during the night at 3 Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there at about two in the morning, and, as the house was an empty one, he suspected something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed and having cards in his pocket bearing the name Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, Ohio, USA.

There had been no robbery, nor is there evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound on the person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house at any time before twelve today, you will find me there.

I have left everything in status quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I will call upon you this evening to present you with fuller details of the affair, when I hope you will favour me with your opinion.

Yours sincerely,

Tobias Gregson.

I handed the letter back to Holmes. “It sounds most puzzling,” I said.

“Yes. No robbery; no obvious cause of death; no wounds on the body, but marks of blood in the room. A fine concoction.”

“This Gregson...”

“A policeman. Inspector. Along with Lestrade he is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders.” Holmes wrinkled his nose. “That says little, however. They are the pick of a bad lot. They are quick and energetic — but conventional and limited in their outlook.”

It seemed a bitter irony that Holmes shared the same view of the official police as Professor Moriarty.

“This Gregson is most earnest in his desire that you help them,” I said.

“He knows I am his superior and acknowledges it to me, but he would bite his tongue off rather than confess it to another soul.” Holmes gave a high-pitched giggle.

“You intend to help him?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. This has all the makings of a splendid case. We shall take a cab immediately to Lauriston Gardens.”

“ We ?”

“Oh, yes, you too, Doctor. I insist!” he cried, rising from the table and flapping off his dressing-gown. “I want you to witness my brilliance at first hand. I cannot have you thinking that I am merely capable of party tricks, simple deductions concerning where someone comes from or where they have been. You should see for yourself the very practical nature of my skills. I trust you don’t object to accompanying me?”

I could not help but grin at his suggestion. It was, of course, just the scenario I had hoped for.

Within five minutes we were in a cab on our way to Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road, and my first adventure with Sherlock Holmes had begun.

It was a cold and misty morning, and a grey veil hung over the housetops. My companion was in an excited mood and was forever leaning forward to spy out of the window of the cab to check the progress of our journey, so eager was he to reach our destination.

“Have you formulated any theories about this strange business?” I asked.

Holmes shook his head vigorously. “No data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement. That is why it is essential that I visit the scene to investigate it for myself; no doubt Gregson will have missed numerous clues which could point the way to the truth. Ah, here were are at last: Lauriston Gardens.”